


City of Love

by boleynqueens, InCeruleanInk



Series: The Ambassador's Daughter [1]
Category: Anne of the Thousand Days (1969), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/pseuds/InCeruleanInk
Summary: Working for Thomas Boleyn, ambassador to France, isn't an easy position for the entitled Henry Tudor.  Working for Thomas Boleyn while being secretly in love with his daughter, the irresistible Anne Boleyn, is even harder...





	1. dinner date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/gifts).



> Written for the amazing @boleynqueens!! Credit for both the premise and the outline for the entire first chapter also go entirely to her <333 Thanks, babe! I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> tw: abuse

**DAY 67 (since henry met anne)**

He notices her the moment she walks in and he can’t help it. He’s transfixed. She’s wearing a little black dress with a square neck, a cinched waist, and a flattering hem, but he thinks he would adore her just as well in sackcloth. He notices these details, tries to foist it off in his own mind as his _acute observational skills_ …but even _he_ knows better. He will always find her across a crowded room. Henry tries to turn his attention back to his own date. After all, he didn’t come here for Anne Boleyn and she certainly didn’t come here for him.

“So how did you meet my brother?” Henry asks his date, Anika, tries to sound cordial, tries to sound interested, but in the back of his mind he’s thinking about Anne Boleyn and from the corner of his eye, he’s watching her walk up to a table for two where a man sits alone, waiting for her. He feels his throat seem to shrink, raises an unconscious hand to yank at his collar. His date is still talking. He hardly hears her.

Anika Kleves is studying her glass, running her carefully manicured finger round and round the rim of her cosmopolitan and flicking her gaze towards him occasionally. “I went on vacation, um, to London one summer, couple years ago. I was gawking up at Big Ben, walking, and…” Anika shrugs, pulls her hand back into her lap. She is a picture of discomfort, shifting in her seat, glancing everywhere, it seems, but towards him.

Henry doesn’t judge her for this because, in truth, he feels the same way. He tries to keep it a little more private, perhaps, but that’s his upbringing. There is something to be said for Anika, however. Henry doesn’t particularly _enjoy_ this but he appreciates that this woman knows who he is, knows his family, and still isn’t faking anything. Still, he’s disappointed by how tonight is turning out. He’s guessing that she is, too. “You were gawking at Big Ben?” he suggests.

“Oh, yes. What’s that tube stop with…all the steps?”

“All the steps?”

“You come right out at the foot of Big Ben…after all the steps?” her German accent is very thick but he actually appreciates that. It gives her a unique quality, here in the heart of Paris.

“Oh,” Henry shrugs. “Westminster.”

“ _Yah_ , so I’d just darted up all those steps because the lift was completely full and I…I hate lifts so I wasn’t going to _wait_ to go up in an overcrowded lift, you know?”

Henry shrugs. “Sure.” Henry always takes the lift, but he understands the general feeling. He understands it without any enthusiasm. He slides his glance towards Anne Boleyn, settling into her seat with her date. Her back is to him, her date faces him, and she has no earthly idea that Henry is here. She tosses her hair: ebony tresses that cascade down her back, and he pictures her laughing, smiling. Her date’s plate is untouched but perhaps he’s too busy devouring her with his eyes. Henry can hardly blame him. Henry shifts uncomfortably, glances at his own empty plate, asks the waiter for more wine. He needs it now.

“And, as you may know,” Anika is saying. “When you go up the steps, you’re _right_ across the street from the base of Big Ben! It towers there above you, larger than life…”

Henry nods sedately. He’s trying to be polite but he finds, even though he asked the question, he doesn’t care about the answer. He nods again, looks at the napkin in his lap, runs his fingertip absently across it. It’s cloth, and supremely white, and he finds himself thinking about all the stains that this cloth has probably seen in its day. He sighs.

“And I just…I’m mesmerized! It doesn’t seem real, but it’s _right_ there, _right_ in front of me!”

“Mhmm,” hums Henry, glances around the crowded restaurant. All around them voices drone from the assortment of tables. He sneaks a glance towards Anne, glances quickly away again. _Stop_ , he thinks. _Stop it, now!_

“So I just walk towards it…”

Henry arches his brows, glances towards Anika, smiles inanely. He wonders if Anne has known this man she’s meeting long, wonders if it’s anything serious. He pictures the date’s hands all over her, feels suddenly stifled where he sits, feels a surge of black anger. He downs his next glass of wine in one go.

“And step right into the traffic!”

“What?” demands Henry, finally coming into the story again.

“Suddenly, I hear a shout, feel someone grab my arm and pull me back! A car whooshes past me! Your brother…he saved my life. He says not, says I was far enough away in time but…he _did_!”

“H- _how_ did he never mention that to me?” demands Henry, throwing up his hands. “Is it that common an occurrence for him? Does he just spend his time casually saving lives?”

“No!” exclaims Anika and she looks flustered. “I think I’m the only one. But he saved me, whatever he says!”

“Hmm,” Henry drums his fingers on the table between them. “Of _course_ he did,” he sighs. He loves his brother, but any time he hears of some accomplishment of Arthur’s that Henry cannot _also_ claim, it rankles him. To date, Henry has not saved _anyone’s_ life. _Great_ , he thinks, listlessly. _Just when I thought this night couldn’t get worse._ “So how long have you known him, now?” asks Henry, refilling both their wine glasses. He feels Anika’s eyes on him, busies himself refilling the glasses to avoid her glance. He _knows_ his reaction is petty; he doesn’t need that reinforced.

Anika shrugs. “Two years. Hasn’t he mentioned me?”

“Of course he’s mentioned you,” assures Henry with a soft smile. “How do you think he set us up?” he teases. She doesn’t laugh. Henry’s met Anika, before, maybe, he thinks, but it’s been a long time and it was brief, even then, while on a visit out to see his brother. Arthur lives in Wales and Henry lives in Paris and…well, they rarely see one another anymore. In truth, the Tudors are scattered across the globe, these days. Their parents live in London, Meg spends her time between Scotland and America, Rosie is constantly traveling, and Henry, well, Henry is here, working his way up the political ladder as an underling to the Ambassador to France….which brings him back to Anne Boleyn, the ambassador’s untouchable daughter. Henry rubs his face. “ _Look_ ,” he’s about to say some variation of the following: ‘ _I don’t know what Arthur was thinking, this isn’t working, you’re very nice but I’m interested in someone else, I think Arthur only pushed us together because of how rudely Marie from work rebuffed me and he knows you’re alone in this city, you could do so much better…_ ’ when he hears it.

“Get _off_ of me!” Anne Boleyn’s voice: crisp, determined, unmistakable, _frightened_.

Henry swivels in his seat to look. Anne is standing, her wrist caught by her date. His eyes are fire, his grip so tight his knuckles turn white. Anne tugs away from him; the man holds her tight, his lips curling cruelly. Henry hears Anika gasp, glances towards her, sees she sees the commotion, and is brought back to reality. “Wait here,” says Henry, getting up.

He hurries to the other table. Anne looks up, stares with wide eyes; the date looks up, stares stupidly.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” says Henry, forming a false smile. The man still has Anne’s wrist locked in a viselike grip: he doesn’t want anything worse to happen. “Hi,” he says, now directly to the ill-begotten date. “I work for her dad.”

The man’s eyes dart from Anne to Henry to Anne again.

Henry looks back to Anne. “Your father keeps texting me, he says there’s a family emergency and that he’s been texting you and you’re not answering?”

“Oh,” says Anne, for the breath of a moment there is worry on her features but just as soon revelation flashes across her face and she is careful not to look at the hand which still restrains her. “Right,” she says. “I…I put my phone on silent. Because I was out.”

“Right.” Henry nods. “I really think you ought to respond to him. He’s…he’s _frantic_.”

The date drops her hand. His grip has left a pale imprint of his fingers on her skin.

“Look,” says Henry, fishing out his phone, as though to show her the texts. He presses a few times, as though showcasing them, but instead dials her number.

Anne’s phone rings. She fishes out her phone. “Oh, God,” she says. “That’s my dad.” Anne picks up, puts the phone to her ear. “Hi, Dad! Wait, wait, the restaurant is really loud, I’m going to take this to the restroom…” She hurries off in that direction.

Henry waits, smiles at the date as though its casual when in fact he wants to make sure the creep doesn’t follow Anne. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I hope everything’s ok.”

“Yeah,” says the date, turns and looks pensively at his plate.

Henry returns to his table. Anika’s eyes are wide saucers; Henry leans over and kisses her cheek for show.

“Is everything ok?”

Henry sighs. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I know her, she’s the daughter of my boss, and I think I should go make sure she gets home ok. I don’t like the look in that guy’s eyes.”

Anika shakes her head. “Me, either,” she hisses.

“I know this hasn’t exactly been the night you were hoping for,” sighs Henry. “But can you do me a big favor? I’m going to leave but…I need you to act like I’m not, like I’m coming right back, ok? I don’t want to tip that creep off that there’s anything going on besides a phone call from her dad.” He stands so that his body is between the creep’s line of sight and what he’s doing as he pulls out a hefty wad of cash and slips it to her. He pauses, pulls out more. “For the meal and anything else you’d like, and extra in case that creep stiffs. I’m just…so sorry.”

Anika waves her hand. “Please. This isn’t even the worst date I’ve ever had.” She laughs, slips the money discreetly into her purse. “I’ll take this end from here. Go take care of that poor girl.”

* * *

 

“ _Christ_ ,” whispers Anne in the restroom. She’s taking a moment: turns on the sink, splashes her face, and leans back against the cool tile. Her heart hammers against her chest, she feels faintly as if she’s going to be sink – dry heaves once, twice – leans her head back. She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to fight back, wants to escape, but she pushes past the panic. “Windows,” she mutters to herself, shoving her phone into her purse again. Maybe she can crawl out a window in here…But there are none and she gags on air, buries her face in her hands. “Stupid, _stupid!_ ”

Anne can’t _think_ what she was thinking anymore, when she accepted this date, but she tries to repress her feelings – for now, anyway – she needs to think, needs to _act_ , now. Henry Tudor – bless him – has given her an out and she needs to take it. She can loose her cool once she’s out of here. “Ok, ok,” she murmurs. There have to be exit doors at the back, she reasons, maybe she can persuade the staff to let her use them, because she can’t walk through the restaurant: her date, Thomas Seymour, that _bastard_ , will certainly see.

“Think, think, think!” But her heart is racing and she is trembling and-

A _knock, knock_ at the bathroom door.

Anne’s lips quiver. Is it him? Is it Thomas, come to collect her? How will she escape now? Anne backs up towards the stalls.

“Hello?” calls a hushed voice, cautiously. “It’s me. Henry Tudor.”

Anne suppresses a little sob as relief washes over her. She hurries towards the door and pulls it open carefully, pulls _him_ inside. Anne watches him watching her and there’s so much pity in his face. She wants to erase that. In the past two or so months of their acquaintance, she’s become accustomed to an altogether different expression on his features: one akin to awe, and she doesn’t want his pity…but she _does_ want his comfort and she _needs_ his help. “Thank you,” she whispers and her voice sounds strangled in her own ears. She straightens, sucks in a breath to steel herself. “ _Thank you_.”

Henry shakes his head. “No need for that,” he says and forms a sad smile.

It’s not pity at all, she realizes, in that face: it’s concern. Anne wipes quickly at her eyes, suddenly conscious she must look a mess.

“You need to go. You can’t go through the restaurant-“

She nods. “He’ll see. There’re no windows in here,” she points.

“That’s all right, I’ve explained everything to one of the waiters and…Anyway, they’re going to let you out the back way and there’s an uber out there waiting for you.”

She turns her eyes up towards him and feels a fresh flood of tears threaten. She’s about to speak, wants to say something but can’t come up with any words, when he nods, puts his coat around her.

“You looked chilly.”

“Will you come with me?” she blurts.

His nod is solemn. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

The car is a source of comfort – warm and removed and dark in a pleasant way, like a return to the womb. Anne wants to feel reborn, wants this to all be over, but she can’t stop thinking: _It could have been so much worse_. Easily, easily it could have been much, much worse. If they’d met at either his place or hers, as Seymour had originally wanted, it _would_ have been worse. But she’s in the car, now, and Seymour is…she doesn’t know where he is. Anne hunches her shoulders, looking at her hands in her lap.

Anne Boleyn prizes her intelligence. She likes to think its quite sharp and, really, considers it to be one of her best features. But tonight she’s ben played – played by an idiot. And why? Because she, Anne Boleyn, was lonely. It ruffles her, a bit, to think that, to admit it even to herself. Anne likes to think she’s independent, impervious to issues such as these, doesn’t _need_ anyone…but she needed someone tonight. Anne glances towards the man sitting beside her. He’s peering anxiously out the window, has been very quiet the whole ride. It’s dark in the car, but its as if there’s a still-darker curtain drawn around him. She doesn’t know what it is, assumes he’s just trying to maintain the silence she’s keeping. _Thoughtful_ , she thinks. It’s not a trait she would have assigned to him, before tonight.

Anne almost laughs, a caustic, self-directed laugh. Twice, she’d struck out, tonight. Where was her fabled intelligence? She’d overestimated Seymour…and underestimated Tudor. Anne feels repentant. Always before tonight she teased Henry because she liked him, _yes_ , but also because she thought he was arrogant. She wishes that she could go back and erase that edge, now. She wishes they were more like friends than…whatever it was they share. She wishes she could make this all up to him.

“Sorry about your date,” she mumbles, shooting him a vulnerable expression. It’s a feeble effort, she knows, but on top of everything else, she’s wrecked his evening. She may as well start there.

Henry starts, almost, glances back to her. “My…Oh,” he replies, glances towards her, out the window beyond her. There’s tension around them, but Anne can’t feel its source until, suddenly, he laughs and the tension pops like a balloon. Henry shakes his head and, still chuckling, glances out the window before looking back to her. “It’s ok,” he replies. “It wasn’t a love connection or anything.”

Anne’s staring at him, even she feels the pressure after a moment, drops her eyes before looking back up again and there’s that tension again. She wants to take his hand, maybe even to kiss it, she wants to thank him, truly, and it bewilders her. Anne has never been beholden to anyone for anything, or if she has, she’s quickly leveled the playing field…but somehow, somehow she finds she doesn’t mind owing him. And there’s that other thing, that matter-of-fact glance as he states his position, even laughs. And she realizes the truth. “But you would have,” she says and her breath is half-held, her gaze awed. “You would have help me, even if it was…wouldn’t you?”

Henry shrugs. “Of course.”

They’re so simple: those words, that look, and Anne feels sucker punched. Yes, she misjudged him. The quiet between them is strangely comfortable, now, but she can feel him in some innate way, wanting to say something more. Instead, the quiet goes on and, impulsively, Anne reaches for his hand, watches surprise blossom onto his features, but he does not pull away. His eyes seem to glow in the darkness and she smiles, almost shyly, but all the fine words she’d been thinking of – the gracious thank yous half-imagined when she had impulsively taken his hand – have gone out of her head. She finds she doesn’t mind.

* * *

 

Her doorstep is recessed, pale shallow steps leading upwards to a door of brightly painted teal, impressively carved by bygone generations. His hand feels seared where she touched it, but it’s a pleasant feeling, a tingling as if a long-slumbering part of him returns to life. He wants to say something, something more, but it’s dark and her evening has been hard. Her face is smeared with makeup and her hair is laced with flyaways, but she’s standing on her own two feet despite what she’s just been through, and she’s never looked more beautiful to him. But he can’t say that, not tonight, not after what she’s been through. Probably not ever.

“Goodni-“

“Do you-“

They both start at the same time, both stop at the same time and stare at one another, stare. He’s waiting for her to speak, suspects she’s waiting for the same thing, but he wants to let her take the lead.

She clears her throat. “Um, I just…Do you…” she smiles, glances towards the door, and gestures to it. “Would you like to come inside?”

Henry glances at the door, too, fidgets. “Sure,” he says, shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him one way or another, because he doesn’t want to seem to eager. The truth is, he wants to see her world, wants to immerse himself in it if he can.

Her smile transforms from something tentative to something bright for the first time this evening and Henry finds he’s smiling too.

She enters a code into a device by the door, slips her key into the lock, and turns. The door opens and she steps inside, holds it for him.

Inside, the hall is marble and square, with twin glass doors opposite the one they’ve just entered that lead out to the open-air courtyard. Anne turns immediately to her right into another corridor that opens into a large, brightly lit one that fronts out into an impressively large round marble staircase. Henry whistles.

“Shhhhh,” whispers Anne but he watches her fight off laughter as she smiles and he grins in a self-congratulatory way as he follows her up the stairs. When they reach the third floor, she walks to the door on the furthest right, unlocking this as well. Her apartment, Henry soon learns, consists of four rooms and two bathrooms: a sitting room, which is also a library; a kitchen which is also a dining room; and two bedrooms.

“I thought _I_ had a nice place,” he laughs. “How’d you score this?”

Anne grins, and there’s something of her usual teasing attitude lurking behind her eyes. He welcomes it back. He loves the sound of her laughter. “You know,” she says, leading him into the kitchen, whose windows are broad and concave, looking out into the round courtyard. “Being an ambassador’s daughter _does_ have its perks.”

“So I see,” he responds.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Good,” replies she. “Because I’m already making it.” He watches her close the lid of her coffee grinder. “My roommate’s out tonight so I can fresh grind it,” she observes. “Trust me, this is the _good_ stuff.”

“You like coffee?”

Anne laughs, tilts her head as though in thought. “Only with my oxygen.”

“Duly noted,” he replies, laughing. Conversation is stopped by the whirring of the grinder, then he’s watching her expertly pouring the grounds into the maker, pressing buttons, arranging the glass cup to catch it…They take the coffee, when it’s finished, out to the living room and curl up on the couch together.

“Lots of books,” he observes.

Anne nods slowly. “ _Lots_ of books. My father always says that, whatever you do with your life, it’ll only be rich if it involves travel and books.”

Henry smiles. “He’s not wrong.”

“Is that why you’re in Paris?” she inquires and he laughs, runs his hand through his hair.

“You still wondering about that one?”

“Come on, you don’t love being my father’s lackey _that_ much.”

She’s always teased him about this, and he laughs out of reminiscence as much as anything. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, sipping at her coffee. “What do you think?”

He chuckles. “I think it was a silly question.”

“It _was_ ,” she purrs. “Every woman has her secrets. Go on, tell me yours.”

He runs his knuckles over his chin, smiling softly. “Just one for tonight.”

“All right, just one.”

“I _don’t_ really like my job _that_ much.”

“I knew it!”

“ _But_ ,” he cuts in. “I like the work, I like doing something meaningful, I like feeling useful and doing it because _I_ decided to do it. Nobody ever told me to get this job. I chose it for myself.”

Anne’s face is a picture of surprise. “You don’t seem like the sort of person who gets told what to do.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Only _one_ person tells me what to do,” he responds. “Well, besides your father, these days. But that’s enough, isn’t it, when it’s been done from birth?”

She gives him a dubious smile – uncertain and small – and sips her coffee again. “Your parents?”

“My father.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“Follow him in the family business, I suppose. What about you? Are you doing what your parents hoped?”

Anne laughs, puts her coffee down against her knee as she bites her lip, bites her lip and shakes her head. “Not exactly,” she admits. “But in fairness, I don’t think my parents know exactly what they wanted for me besides, you know, just ‘ _not that_.’” She laughs; Henry doesn’t. Anne sobers, shrugs. “I’m not exactly rebellious,” she begins, slowly. “I’m just…I have my own mind and sometimes they forget that it doesn’t always agree with theirs. Does that make sense?”

He nods. “Yeah. That makes sense.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I’m rebellious, either.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure my father would agree, mind…we have our differences of opinion-“ she nods. “But it’s not…rebellion, not _exactly_. I want to make them proud.”

She nods. “So do I.”

“Do you succeed?”

She laughs, shrugs. “I’d say I clock in…50/50. What about you?”

Henry shakes his head. “I…wish I knew.”

“Wow. That must be tough.”

“It is.”

There’s a silence, not uncomfortable, but full, as if they’re both reviewing their lives from their parents’ point of view…and reviewing their parents’ lives from their own perspectives.

“Your date tonight,” begins Anne, staring into her mug. “Was that to please your family?”

He chuckles, shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. “Not exactly.”

“So? You said it wasn’t a love match…but it didn’t exactly look like it was a sexual one, either…No offense…you were both just so…hands off…”

He glances to her in surprise. In truth, he hadn’t thought she’d seen him at all before he’d approached her table, certainly hadn’t thought she’d taken in his chemistry with Anika. “No…” he admits slowly, eyeing her carefully. Henry clears his throat. “I, um, I asked out a girl at work…”

“Yeah?”

“Marie de Guise,” he shrugged. “She wasn’t interested but…she wasn’t exactly kind about it, either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean, it’s not like she didn’t have reasons. I have…a bit of a reputation.”

“What _kind_ of reputation?”

He winced. “Ladies’ man?”

“Mmmm,” she responded.

“So, I…complained about this to my brother and his response was to set me up with a friend of his whose in Paris, right now.”

“Ah, so it was more your family trying to please _you_ than the other way around?”

“I suppose you could say that. What…” he glances at his hands. “What about you? If…if you don’t mind talking about it?”

Anne takes a long draw from her mug before setting it on the coffee table in front of them. “I’m gonna get really real with you right now, Henry Tudor, but please understand it’s _only_ because you asked. That was a tinder date.”

“Oh.”

“I was hoping to get laid, tonight.”

“ _Oh_.” He stares at her and Anne laughs.

“Don’t feel put on the spot. I wasn’t…offering.”

“Oh.” He says, then quickly. “No! No, I…I didn’t…I didn’t think that. I wasn’t, I didn’t-“

“Oh my God, you’re turning red! No, relax, it’s ok…my libido got crushed along with my hand at dinner. Don’t worry about it. By the way…” she pauses, glances at a spot on the wall to her right, looks back. “Umm, thank you, really, thank you for what you did tonight. If you hadn’t…if you hadn’t, um, I don’t, um, I don’t know what would have happened tonight and I just…” she squeezes her eyes closed. “I was really scared. You looked out for me. You didn’t have to, but you did, anyway. Just…I know it’s not adequate, can’t be, but… _thank you_. Again.”

Henry feels panicked. He’s watching her, watching her face pale, her eyes dart away as distress creeps back into her and runs as nervous energy through her frame, her eyes filling with distress and unshed tears. He doesn’t know what to do, can’t watch her like this. “No,” he says, quickly, shakes his head. “It’s all, it’s all…fine…”

“I’m not used to owing anyone.”

“You don’t, you _really_ don’t owe me anything-“ He swallows hard. “I, um, you know, I just…My date had just told me this story about, about my brother’s heroics, you know,” he babbles. “That’s why…that’s why I did it,” he lies. “Just to be even with him. That’s all…”

Anne glances back towards him, laughs, wipes at tears in the corners of her eyes. “ _Oh_ ,” she murmurs and pulls her legs up under her chin. “Well, then…please thank your brother, too,” she says quickly, gets up and grabs her mug to take back to the kitchen. She stops abruptly before she gets to the dark room, but doesn’t turn back to face him. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you tonight, Henry…” He feels slow, confused, stares at the sharp lines of her back and arms as she stands still, so very still. She’s quiet for a good long while, then he sees her wrapping her arms around herself. “Would it…would it be too much to ask another favor?”

Henry reaches out, drops his hand. He wishes he hadn’t said what he’d said about Arthur. He didn’t mean to, he’d just wanted to downplay the emotion of the moment, hadn’t meant to make her feel….whatever it is she’s feeling right now. He wants to apologize, but can’t figure out how to begin. In truth, he hadn’t even thought of his brother or his heroics at all, he’d just seen Anne in distress…and found he wasn’t capable of turning a blind eye to it. But he’s looking at her back and she’s staring into a dark kitchen and he sighs, runs his hands through his hair. “I’m yours,” he says impulsively, earning a choked laugh from her.

Slowly, Anne turns back to face him. “Would it be…Would you mind…My roommate’s not here, tonight,” she says, gesturing towards the empty bedroom. “Would you mind staying? I,” she shrugs, leans helplessly against the doorframe as she glances towards the floor. “I don’t want to be alone, tonight.”

Henry stands, he doesn’t know why, but he stands. He’s still clutching his mug in one hand, and he doesn’t know why he’s doing that, either. He just knows one thing: he adores her and there isn’t a thing in this world he would do for her. “Of course I’ll stay, Anne. Of _course_.”

Her eyes meet his slowly, shyly, and she smiles. It’s worth it all, he thinks, just to see that sweet smile.


	2. walking tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Spend the day with me! If you’re spending your time eating at _McDonald’s_ , you clearly need a guide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, HALEY!!!!! I've been working on this for aaaaaaaages but it just kept going and going hahaha so anyway!! v late, but here it is! also, i haven't gotten a chance to edit it but i thought you'd rather have it before its edited than wait ever LONGER for it hahaha
> 
> Anyway, this was just meant to be a quick scene transition between the night they spent together and the next scenes we discussed, but instead it ended up being a whole chapter so yeah but have no fear! I have not forgotten that and that will hopefully be the contents of the next chapter (which will hopefully make its appearance a lot more quickly than this one did!!) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it <333333
> 
> To everyone else: if you haven't, please read this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187232 for what happened that evening... <333333

**DAY 68 (since henry met anne)**

He thinks he’s dreaming when he first wakes, thinks that he’s lapsed into some pleasant idea of a life that will never be. It’s not the first time he’s had this dream, after all: waking up to Anne Boleyn. Bathed in sunlight, her dark hair fans across her pillow like a corona and he catches himself thinking she looks like an angel. He’s still gazing at her when she stirs, nuzzling against the pillow and, as she moves, the mattress shifts beneath her. Henry’s heart clenches and he lies back hastily, squeezes his eyes shut. This is no dream, no dream at all. His heart hitches, slams, and he finds he’s holding his breath for no reason. He is lying next to Anne Boleyn. Certainly, it was chaste as chaste can be, but he _slept_ with her and Henry pulls the covers up beneath his chin, not wanting an inch of skin more than necessary to show. It’s a tension he can’t quite take.

“Mmmm,” says Anne. Her eyes flutter open, she starts to stretch, and Henry panics. He pretends to be asleep, feels her shift in bed towards him, pause. Henry wants to hold his breath, tries not to. Suddenly, the mattress shifts again and he hears her padding across the floor, hears her bedroom door shut softly as she leaves, and he hates himself for not saying good morning, though he’s momentarily glad not to have had the awkwardness of it. _It would have been worth it_ , he thinks, opening one eye to peer at the closed door. He’ll never know, now.

Henry grunts, sitting up to slide his feet towards the floor. Females voices, hushed, outside. He glances over his shoulder towards the door. _The roommate_ , he decides, letting his feet touch the floor. They are talking quickly and Henry bites his lip, shaking his head: _Moment lost, then_.

His feet hit the floor a moment later and, as he shuffles towards the bathroom, the aroma of coffee caresses his nostrils. Out of the bathroom, a moment later, and he smells eggs cooking, as well. He walks back out into the bedroom, walks to the door. His hand on the doorknob, Henry gasps in a deep fortifying breath. She’s out there – _they’re_ out there – and he has to face them; he has to face them, knowing he’s admitted his attraction to Anne without ever having learned her feelings towards him.

 _That’s fine_ , he tells himself, but somehow he doesn’t twist the knob to open the door. _It’ll be fine_. Henry sucks in another breath and opens the door. An empty corridor. He starts down the hall, nearing the kitchen door. Two female figures immediately swivel to face him. He holds his breath, staring in towards them. Uncertainty sparks and snaps around him, and he thinks of her astonishemtn last night in panicky uncertainty. He is a fool, a fool, a fool…

“Hi,” says Anne, finally, softly, and her tone reminds him of tender “lamb’s ear” plants in spring. She’s half-shy, half-excited, and he feels his own heart pounding to the same rhythm.

“Hi,” he breathes, softly, hopefully, with the faintest touch of a smile…

The other woman clears her throat. Both Henry and Anne swivel to face her. “Hi,” she says, teasing grin suggested by the quirk of her lips. “Henry, right? Thanks for bailing out my roommate. Rent would’ve _sucked_ without her.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” responds Anne, poking her friend.

“So you really saved my bacon. Speaking of which…would you like some? Bacon. We made breakfast. Oh, I’m Bridget Wiltshire. Come eat something.”

Breakfast was a whirlwind, Henry distractedly answering questions; the roommates chatting; and finally Henry made the excuse that he had to begin his day.

“What does today hold for you?” asked Anne, gathering his plate and placing it in her sink.

“I have to go to work…”

“Skip it,” offered Anne. “Spend the day with me! If you’re spending your time eating at McDonald’s, you _clearly_ need a guide. I could show you every touristy place you could possibly want, you know.”

“Anne is the next best thing to a native,” pointed out Bridget.

“I practically did grow up here,” said Anne. “Since I was a little girl and my father was dispatched here by the State department. I promise you, it would be fun.”

“I don’t know.” Henry pauses, breathes in the coffee-infused air of the room. “There’s so much to be done-“

“I know your boss,” pointed out Anne, leaning against the kitchen sink. “I happen to know he’ll be out of the office for most of today. If there were ever a good day to play hooky…” Anne arched perfectly manicured eyebrows, her dark eyes seeming to smile beneath them. “Anyway, showing you around is the least I could do after the service you performed last night.”

Bridget arches suggestive brows.

Quickly, Henry shakes his head. “It’s not like that!” he exclaims.

Bridget holds up hands in surrender and Anne turns to look at her. The women laugh and Henry finds himself blushing deeply. Seizing up his mug, he carries it and a few other dishes towards the sink where Anne still leans.

“Please?” she murmurs near his ear. The warmth of her breath.

Henry presses his eyes closed. “I-” he breaks off, turns to look at her.

Anne’s eyes are dark, deep as the black coffee she drinks, rich as chocolate. They are heaven: encompassing, promising, beautiful. He thinks of her laughing, smiling, as he has seen her so many times in passing, and he pictures her laughter, her smiles, for _him_. The breath is caught in his throat but he hardly notices. He is holding his breath and her eyes are pleading. He nods, then. “All right,” he says softly, softly. “All right.”

And she does smile, face brightening, and she’s only looking at him. “You won’t regret it.”

* * *

 

“I can’t believe,” Anne is saying. “That you’ve _never_ been here. What have you been doing with your time here?” She smiles, feeling the sweet breeze tossing her hair as they cross the Pont Royal towards the Louvre. Before them, the Tuileries gardens open up, sided by the Louvre palace.

“Work, mostly,” he replies, shrugging. “I’ve only been here for about two months, you know, and I don’t know anyone here.”

Anne’s eyes narrow, her heels click on the cobblestone as they approach the great museum. “Oh, yes, because certainly you need someone to tell you about the Louvre. How else would you have ever known about it?” she teases. “So do you mean to tell me that, back home, you never went anywhere unless you had your posse already you?”

“I-” he stops, licks his lips while Anne studies him expectantly. He colors and Anne watches as the tips of his ears turn scarlet. Unbidden, her lips quirk upwards. It’s almost charming, how deeply and genuinely he feels even this. “It’s just that…” he bites his lip, shrugs helplessly. “Well…yes.”

“Hmm,” replies Anne. For herself, Anne has always been quite independent – often regardless of whether she wished to be or not – and she tries hard to picture a life dependent on the whims of others. _How trapped he must feel_ , she thinks, sadly. It strikes her as strange that someone as proud as he should lead his life this way, but she begins to understand, all the more, how very brave this move must have been for him: striking out alone in defiant of his family’s wishes, to grasp at building his own life for himself. Her smile is tentative. “Why Paris?” she asks, unbidden.

“Why Paris?” Henry turns to look at her, the question tumbling from his lips in confusion. “You know, my brother asked the same question.”

“The one who set you up with Annika Kleves?”

Henry nods. “Yes, Arthur: my only brother.”

“What did you tell him?”

Henry exhales, laughs. “It’s silly, really.”

“Some of the best reasons are,” encourages Anne and he pauses, looks at her for a long time, before dipping his head again to look towards his feet.

“I don’t know, I just,” Henry licks his lips, glances off towards the Seine. “I’ve always wanted to be a part of something, something big and wonderful and glorious. Something historic, something…unforgettable.” He smiles, then, big and round and looks at her and Anne’s heart shudders. “Is there anywhere more appropriate to start that journey?”

Anne’s smile is a thin line and she holds his eye: deep and dark and blue like the sea – not the brilliant Mediterranean or the salty Aegean, no. Henry’s orbs belonged to the wider world: the stormy Atlantic or the turbulent Pacific, out deep and far from land, but his skin was pale and pink. The seeming discord of these features, however, had turned serene in his face, like two equal scales in harmony, and he was beautiful: yes, beautiful, with short red-gold curly hair and eyes that seemed to smile, even when his countenance was serious, as it was just now. “I don’t know,” replied Anne, suddenly self-conscious, like she’d been born with too many limbs and no longer knew what to do with them all. “But it does seem made for that, doesn’t it?”

He chuckles. “And you, Anne? What brought you to Paris?”

She shrugs as they come to the end of the bridge. She moves left towards the gossamer gardens and, silently, he follows her lead while keeping pace with her. “I didn’t choose it,” she admits. “But it feels, now, like it’s a part of who I am. My father, as you might have guessed, has been in the State Department my whole life – and longer, actually. When I was just six, he was sent to Belgium and we all went with him, that summer. I’ve been living in Europe since that time, with only occasional trips elsewhere, and,” Anne shrugged. “I came to Paris, in the same fashion, the next year. It’s my home. I hardly remember ever having any other.”

The Tuileries gardens were exquisite any time of year, but now, in May, it burst forth with flowers in spectacular color and finely kept trees that smelled sweet in the breeze amidst tame green lawns. Fine sandy pea gravel led them along the path, moving slowly along the way, walking with the greater Louvre to their back.

“Are we not going to the museum?” he asked.

“Not that part,” she said. “Not today. We’re going to the Musée de l’Orangerie.”

“The Orangerie?”

Anne nodded, a smile creeping across her face. “Do you like the Impressionists? Either way, you’ll enjoy them even more after today,” she assured him. “But first a little stroll through the gardens. It’s so beautiful outside! It would be a shame to go inside too early.”

“Where else are we going?”

“Today? Shakespeare & Company and Notre Dame.”

* * *

 

The Orangerie is a marble building, as it turns out, built to house massive works by Claude Monet. Henry is a tall man, but the paintings run on and on and on and he gazes in amazement at the colors, massive swathes of rippling waterlilies, and wonder overcomes him as he imagines what a massive undertaking this must have been. Anne stands at his shoulder, gazing on and on as well and he finds himself picturing a 7 year old Anne grasping her father’s hand in her tiny fist and staring with wide eyes.

Henry has seen pictures of these images, of course, but none that had ever done them justice.

“How does it make you feel?” asked Anne.

“Wonderful – I mean, full of wonder.”

Anne smiles. “What else?”

“Peaceful. What about you?”

She nods, slowly, slides her eyes back to the massive canvases. “They’re wonderful – in all senses – to me.” She agrees. “And peaceful, yes, but surreal, too.” She smiles, tilts her head. “Quite literally larger than life. But isn’t that realistic, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

Anne chuckles. “Our fantasies, our ideas of what _should_ be…they far outshine, utterly _dwarf_ our realities. Maybe that’s how it ought to be.”

Henry drinks in Monet’s deep blues: waters never to be disturbed, yet he seems to feel, rather than see, the endless ripples running outward from them. “I don’t think so.”

Anne arches her brows and turns to look at him.

“Why just enjoy the _fantasy_? Why not reach out and make it reality? Why watch those dreams fester while life still remains in us?”

Henry watches her face, her eyes fastened on him, the softest lilt of a smile. “Your head must be a very pleasant place to be,” she says.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does. He doesn’t meant to speak, but he does. “You’ve clearly never been there.”

Anne nods. “Fair enough,” she replies. “Tell me, what fantasy is it that you look to construct in reality?”

Henry fastens his eyes on her, studies her expression, and wonders if she’s laughing at him. He finds, at last, that he can’t tell, but she is lovely and her attention is ll blessedly his, and he finds he doesn’t mind one way or another. His answer is honest. “All of them.”

* * *

 

Shakespeare & Company proves to be unexpected: on the banks of the Seine it rests, a haven for the literate. Books, nestled and tucked into each corner and Anne alternately teases him, laughs with him, discusses the merits and foibles of books. She reads, he finds, reads and reads and reads…and her hair smells like honeysuckle.

When they leave the bookstore, Anne slips her hand into his. She stops short, her eyes search his, and then a quick, impulsive smile. His heart clenches, and she hurries forward, leading him by the hand. They laugh, hurrying across the bridge to the Île de la Cité.

“This island,” she tells him, pausing to look around. “Was the first inhabited space in Paris, they believe. It was the home of many Gauls during the time of Julius Caesar. Can you imagine?” she wonders. “To have lived so long ago, to know a home that remains and yet, already, has disappeared.”

“Someday,” he says. “That will be true of us, too.”

“Is that why you want to do something unforgettable?”

“Don’t you wish to be remembered?”

Anne smiles thoughtfully. “I already am,” she says, playfully. “Don’t you think of me, Henry, even when I’m not with you?”

“Yes,” he says, impulsively, and bends his head as though to kiss her. Her eyes are embers that burn, and he longs for their warmth. He’s caught in the moment, her eyes on his, her lips so near his they could almost touch. Her expression is inviting, but he hesitates and the moments drip on.

Anne smiles, smiles with his lips near hers, and takes his hand. “Come on. Notre Dame awaits.”

It’s a longer wait to enter the Cathedral than it had been for the Orangerie, but Anne insists they wait.

“You can’t come all the way to _Paris_ and never have gone inside the Cathedral,” she tells him and Henry bends to this wisdom.

The waiting is over sooner than he’d expected: Anne keeping him entertained, and soon they file inside. Its dark within, and noisy with tourists, but Henry doesn’t mind as he glances around him. A magnificent rose windows illuminates each of the four directions. Everywhere, in fact, extravagant stained glass windows illuminate their surroundings and smaller altars adorn each aisle. Jostled by the crowd, Anne and Henry linked hands again, so as not to be separated.

“Napoleon was crowned Emperor here,” Anne tells him, leading him up the center aisle. “Henry VI was crowned King of France here.”

“Why is that important?”

Anne’s smile was impish. “Henry VI of _England_!”

Henry’s brows shot up. “I didn’t know that,” he commented.

“Not that poor Henry VI was able to hold on to any of his titles,” she admitted. “But I thought another _Henry_ might be interested to know.”

He chuckled. “You thought right.”

The ceilings were crowned in high arches which seemed to hover miles overhead, all in pale stone, suspended upon a multitude of stout pillars. The glory of the medieval world ringed them in vaulted stone, concrete and touchable. Henry peered upward and imagined what he might see here now, if the cathedral had not endured so much damage during the French Revolution: looted, pillaged, and ransacked. Its ancient tombs desecrated and destroyed, its statues broken up and beheaded, its sacred artifacts bespoiled and stolen. He wondered what it must be: to have wrought something so lovely and lasting and ancient, only to watch it torn down from afterlife, helpless to ever rebuild one’s legacy.

“The real beauty of this cathedral is not inside it,” Anne told him as they left.

She led him out back, into gardens adorned with the afternoon sun. Behind the soaring cathedral, the island ended and the Seine overtook the horizon. From this spot the world had all faded away. The garden was soothingly lonely, very few other beings dotting its intimate landscape and Anne stopped in front of him, and turned. “Look behind you.”

Turning, he saw that they stood behind the magnificent cathedral, its back curving away towards the front. Rows and rows of glass shone in the sunlight, gleaming like gems. Massive windows graced each arching storey of the massive building, brightening its landscape and, swinging in sharp beauty, flying buttresses ringed the spot.

“You see? Perhaps the most lovely spot in all of Paris,” said Anne Boleyn. “And the crowning architectural glory of Notre Dame. Ironically, for all the discussion, that’s the true gift of this cathedral to history: Notre Dame is the first recorded use of flying buttresses and yet, for all that that is its claim to fame, only rarely does anyone come back here to look at them; its very relevance lost in its iconic status. Life is full of its little ironies, isn’t it?”

Henry nods slowly. He wishes to say more, needs to, but the words are lost between them. “Are we an irony, Anne?” he asks, at last.

Her eyes are the deepest shade, but lit up against the glow of the sun as she glances up, they gleam nearly amber in hue and he gasps. He means to say: _I want you now; I have always wanted you_ , but the words are frozen on his lips.

Anne smiles colorlessly, thin-lipped and knowing. She is nodded when she glances away, back towards the cathedral. “Yes,” she replies. “Yes, I suspect we are.”

“Today is over, isn’t it?”

Her gaze sweeps towards him and she blinks once, insouciant, smiles half-fondly. “Is that what you want?”

 _No_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t know how to say it, manages only a half-desperate: “ _When can I see you again_?”

“When you return,” she says. “When you return from your trip to Nice with my father.”

“Nice,” he mumbles. “Nice, yes, I’d almost forgotten.” Henry tries to remember who he is outside this moment, this stolen moment; tries to remember how hard he has fought to be where he is, now.

Stepping forward, Anne takes both his hands. “Don’t,” she whispers, her eyes searching his. “Don’t forget.” She is no longer speaking of Nice.

“Its your birthday coming up,” recalls Henry, suddenly. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, while you’re gone.”

“I’ll send you something,” he promises. “What would you like?”

Anne laughs. “Nothing you can send through the mail,” she teases, shakes her head. “What will you send me?”

Henry grins, a smile that lights up the twilight, and laughs. “Something that will go through the mail.”

* * *

 

**DAY 72 (since henry met anne)**

Sapphires. When Anne opens the package, she finds that he has send her a pair of sapphire earrings: beautiful and bright, nearly as radiant as his smile and nearly as dark a shade of blue as his eyes. Anne smirks, leaning towards the mirror. She puts on each in turn carefully, carefully, and peers into the mirror. The blue sparkles like icy flame, framing her face. She smiles into the mirror and she does not take them off. Now, she thinks, wherever she goes, she carries something of him with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bridget Wiltshire was one of Anne Boleyn's ladies-in-waiting and, it seems, a lifelong friend before her death in 1534 cut the relationship short. You can read more about Bridget here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridget_Wiltshire
> 
> In this fic, I relate Anne's relative ages re: the timeline to the 1507 date of birth.
> 
> The Tuileries: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuileries_Garden  
> The Orangerie: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mus%C3%A9e_de_l%27Orangerie  
> Shakespeare & Company: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare_and_Company_(bookstore)  
> Notre Dame (flying buttresses): https://www.google.com/search?q=notre+dame+flying+buttresses&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi695nO6ubdAhUDheAKHVqMCBkQ_AUIDigB&biw=1248&bih=747

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Redeux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15187232) by [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens)




End file.
